


Brilliance

by animeangelriku



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Community: Do It With Style Events, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang, Established Relationship, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Scene: The Bookshop Fire (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29384646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animeangelriku/pseuds/animeangelriku
Summary: Aziraphale himself has never dreamed. Honestly, he finds the whole process incredibly vulnerable, if anything, and he can’t help feeling just a little bit sorry for the humans’ need to sleep. Part of the grand design and all that, he supposes.In a way, though, that same vulnerability makes the fact that Crowley is perfectly comfortable sleeping with Aziraphale around that much more heartwarming. It means that Crowley trusts him to look after him, to make sure nothing happens to him while he’s unconscious and defenseless.Aziraphale has never betrayed that trust, and he does not plan to start doing so now.So when terrible nightmares begin to plague his darling Crowley’s slumber, Aziraphale is decided to do everything in his power to help him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 163
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang





	Brilliance

**Author's Note:**

> This could not have been written without [idanit’s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idanit/pseuds/idanit) BEAUTIFUL artwork! As soon as I saw it, I knew I wanted to write something for it, and I am so happy that I got to work with her for this event! Please go and check her gorgeous, BREATHTAKING piece [here,](https://idanit.tumblr.com/post/642947965272702976/he-grips-crowley-almost-possessively-he-will-not), the beautiful banner she did [here](https://idanit.tumblr.com/post/642454523956314112/brilliance-i-saw-it-the-bookshop-crowley), and please look at all the other amazingly stunning art she’s done on her [Tumblr](https://idanit.tumblr.com/) and [Instagram!](https://www.instagram.com/idanit_art/)
> 
> Thank you SO much to Badger and Jars for beta-reading this fic and helping me with the Brit-picking! Any remaining mistakes are mine, so please have mercy on me! And a big thank you to the folks at the DIWS Discord server for everything!

The first time Aziraphale notices something is wrong with Crowley is a few days after the world doesn’t end.

They’ve been drinking in the backroom of the bookshop for the last couple of hours, wine sloshing from the bottle as Crowley gestures wildly and Aziraphale wheezes with laughter, barely able to keep his glass from spilling entirely. He’s… not successful, but Crowley’s eyes are so bright, so full of mirth and _life_ , that Aziraphale, honest to God, can’t bring himself to care about the mess they’re making.

He doesn’t even think twice about his choice of words. Heaven and Hell be damned, as long as Aziraphale can stay right here, listening to Crowley drunkenly go on and on about… something*, his sentences slurring together until he’s flopped down on the couch, on his usual seat.

On the place that is—always has been, will always be—rightfully his.

(*Truth be told, Aziraphale has been staring intently at Crowley’s mouth while he talks, and yet he hasn’t actually heard a single word the demon has said in the past twenty-three minutes.)

It takes them an astoundingly short time to finish the bottle in Crowley’s hand, though, to be fair, that might be because they’ve most likely drank about half of it and spilled the other half. In any case, Crowley attempts to pour himself another glass and finds the bottle empty, tilting his head back and opening his mouth as he shakes said bottle above him, as if he can pull the last few drops out of it with sheer force of will.

Aziraphale has no doubt he could. He drove his car through a ring of hellfire and kept it from bursting into flames long after any other vehicle would have become a molten heap of metal and rubber. There’s nothing Crowley can’t do.

He tries not to stare at the expanse of Crowley’s throat, at the bob of his Adam’s apple, but in his drunken stupor, he can’t pull his eyes away. Crowley has such a lovely throat, his skin enticing, beckoning, absolutely tempting. Aziraphale wonders, fleetingly, what it might feel like to kiss it.

“Angel!” Crowley cries suddenly. “W’need more wine! ‘s bottle’s empty!” he declares, letting the offending empty bottle fall to the sofa cushions and gently roll down to the floor. 

“Can’t have that, can we?” Aziraphale gets up from his armchair, but not without a little trouble. He first thinks about miracling another bottle from his catalogue, and then he remembers he’s so drunk that he’s thinking about kissing Crowley’s throat, so it’s better if he just goes to get the bottle himself. Who knows what he might do if he were to try a miracle at the moment. “Back in a jiffy!”

“ _Jiffy_ ,” he hears Crowley mutter. “Who _talks_ like that, angel?”

“ _I_ do!” Aziraphale defends without any heat.

“ _Other_ than you!” Crowley yells after him, no heat in his voice, either.

Taking a chance now that Crowley can’t see him, Aziraphale grins to himself, feeling warmth and love fluttering, blooming inside his chest. It has been so wonderful, being able to spend so much time with Crowley without any fear or worry. He has found himself so much more relaxed, not wound up so tight. Not to say it has been easy, but it has certainly been easier than Aziraphale originally assumed it would be like.

As if their natural state has always been to be around each other, and the pieces have finally started to fall in their place, as they should have since the beginning of time.

Aziraphale shivers, suddenly overwhelmed. He wants to walk back to Crowley and tell him how much he loves him, adores him, how much Crowley means to him, how dear and precious he is to Aziraphale, but the part of him that remains unaffected by alcohol thinks that perhaps that is a conversation best had while they are sober rather than drunk out of their minds.

It doesn’t matter. They are no longer on borrowed time, sneaking reunions in the middle of trying to raise the Antichrist child, dreading the future and what might await them there. On the contrary, they have all the time in the world now. There is no rush. Aziraphale no longer has to worry about wondering what a world without Crowley might be like.

When he finally returns to Crowley, another two bottles in his hands, he finds the demon deeply asleep, lying a bit lopsided on the sofa. He’s almost falling off of it, so Aziraphale sets the bottles down on the table and gently, carefully, moves Crowley’s lithe limbs until he has been set right upon the cushions.

It can’t be comfortable to sleep with those blasted dark lenses on, Aziraphale thinks. His touch is light as he slowly pulls them off Crowley’s face, placing them next to the now unnecessary bottles of wine before he turns back to look at Crowley and sighs, a possibly dopey smile overtaking his lips.

He can’t believe how in love he is. He did not think himself capable of being so in love, and yet.

Aziraphale observes Crowley for thousands of seconds, stretching out into minutes, until he realizes that he is most likely being a bit creepy, because if Crowley were to awake and catch him staring at him, he might not appreciate it. Decided not to put a strain on their friendship now that they have gotten here, Aziraphale sobers himself up with a thought and summons a book from his collection and his reading glasses. Then he makes himself comfortable on his armchair and starts to read.

He doesn’t know how long he has been reading, watching Crowley out of the corner of his eye, when he lifts his gaze and finds Crowley’s brow furrowed in what looks like pain.

Aziraphale is knelt by his side immediately, his hands hovering above Crowley’s figure to make sure he is not physically hurt. There seem to be no wounds on him, which tells Aziraphale the poor demon must be having quite an unpleasant dream.

Aziraphale himself has never dreamed. He has daydreamed, of course, letting his mind wander and come up with scenarios he longed to live through, yearning for a life he thought he would never be able to have. But he has never dreamed like the humans do—at night, in the REM stage of their sleep cycle. He doesn’t see the appeal to it. Honestly, Aziraphale finds the whole process incredibly vulnerable, if anything, and he can’t help feeling just a little bit sorry for the humans’ need to sleep. Part of the grand design and all that, he supposes.

In a way, though, that same vulnerability makes the fact that Crowley is perfectly comfortable sleeping with Aziraphale around that much more heartwarming. It means that Crowley trusts him to look after him, to make sure nothing happens to him while he’s unconscious and defenseless.

Aziraphale has never betrayed that trust, and he does not plan to start doing so now.

He places a gentle but firm hand on Crowley’s forehead and murmurs, with all the power he can muster, “You will dream of whatever you like best, my darling boy.”

(He dares to speak his love for the demon into the universe now that Crowley is asleep. As far as vulnerability goes, it is fair that they both bare themselves one way or another.)

The miracle is not instantaneous, but it only takes the space between a breath and the next for Crowley’s brow to relax, the pain draining from his features and leaving tranquility in its wake.

With his goal accomplished, Aziraphale also dares to press a featherlight kiss between Crowley’s brow, ensuring that his miracle lasts as long as possible—for the rest of Crowley’s slumber, if he can make it so.

The next morning, Aziraphale watches Crowley starting to wake and pretends he’s cataloguing the many piles of books in the backroom, just so that Crowley won’t suspect the angel kept guard over him the entire night. Crowley thanks him for the wine, and Aziraphale says, “Anytime, my dear,” and he very pointedly does not ask what kind of dream could have possibly hurt Crowley so much.

The demon sashays out of the bookshop with the promise to meet again sometime in the coming days.

Aziraphale gets back to his pretend-cataloguing.

  


* * *

  


The second time Aziraphale notices Crowley’s trouble with sleeping is a few months later. This time, they’re in Crowley’s flat, and Crowley is asleep in his own bed rather than on the sofa. It’s become a bit of a tradition to spend Friday nights and the weekends in the flat instead of in the bookshop, and while Aziraphale doesn’t find joy in the same things Crowley does, he does find great joy in just spending time with Crowley, regardless of what they’re doing.

The last couple of weeks have been wonderful, magnificent, just lovely, really, full of little touches and smiles and laughter and kisses. Being able and allowed and _encouraged_ to express their love for one another is freeing in a way Aziraphale never even thought of, something that never occurred to him. He adores that he can now hold Crowley’s hand for hours or run his fingers through his hair or simply keep a hand on Crowley’s shoulder while he watches TV and press gentle kisses to his head, his cheek, his nose, his mouth.

Aziraphale once wondered out loud whether Crowley might, perhaps, find him a tad clingy, to which Crowley replied, very seriously, “Angel, I’ve often thought about keeping you tied to me just so that I don’t have to be away from you. I don’t _mind_ you being clingy, all right? If anything, I thought you’d find _me_ too clingy.”

“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale told him, failing to bite back his grin. “Not at all. Not in the slightest.”

“’s what you say now,” Crowley muttered, still unused to being shown such devotion. “Might tire you out yet.”

“Never,” Aziraphale answered, maybe a little too serious.

So they have now moved to spending most, if not all, of their time together. Aziraphale still doesn’t like sleeping, but he has no problem sitting next to Crowley on his gratuitously large bed and flipping through the pages of an old favourite book of his while his darling sleeps. Sometimes he’ll just watch Crowley for hours, observing the rise and fall of his chest, the way his eyelashes flutter infinitesimally against his cheekbones.

Crowley is so beautiful, so breathtaking, in any way he decides to present himself, and Aziraphale considers himself blessed, truly, to be a welcome spectator of his beloved’s sleeping form.

But then Crowley’s brow furrows. He lets out a barely audible whimper and curls into himself, his hands tightening into fists as he clutches at the bedsheets beneath him.

“Angel,” he mumbles, his voice strained, and Aziraphale vanishes his book and presses one hand to Crowley’s head and the other one to his arm, running it soothingly up and down his sleeve.

“It’s all right, my sweet boy,” he murmurs softly. “My love, my darling one, I’m here. Everything’s fine. No more unpleasantness. You will dream of whatever you like best, my dear heart.”

Aziraphale pours all of his power into that one miracle—as much as he can without it hurting Crowley, that is. The air changes, taking in his divinity and spreading it safely over his demon. Aziraphale pets Crowley’s hair, and he sighs in relief when Crowley’s features relax, his fingers unclenching until his hands lay gentle and pliant on the bed. He continues carding his fingers through Crowley’s short locks, and he leans down to kiss his forehead, his temple, his lips light against the skin underneath.

In the morning, Aziraphale busies himself with making tea in the kitchen. He hears Crowley’s footsteps growing closer, and then Crowley nuzzles the back of his neck and wraps his arms around Aziraphale.

“Good morning, my dear,” Aziraphale says, resting his hands over his beloved’s. “Did you sleep well?”

“Mhm.”

Aziraphale bites his lip. He wants to ask Crowley about his dreams, about what he sees when he’s sleeping, about how worried and scared and hurt he looks in the waking world… But this new… _thing_ between them, this free expression of their love, is still so new, so delicate, and Aziraphale does not want to put a damper on it, to be the one that takes them twenty steps back after they’ve gotten all the way here.

And yet… he can’t bear to know Crowley is suffering in silence. He can’t bear to stand on the sidelines with his arms crossed.

“Love,” Aziraphale starts carefully. Crowley leans further against him, draping himself over Aziraphale’s back. “May I ask you something?”

“’f you want,” Crowley mutters sleepily.

Gathering his nerves, the angel breathes in. “Are you having bad dreams?”

Crowley’s arms tense slightly around him.

“I have noticed,” Aziraphale hurries on, “and I have done my best to help you sleep peacefully— oh, Crowley, I apologise for doing so without your consent—”

“It’s fine,” Crowley says, but his voice is small, quiet. “’s fine, angel, don’t worry.”

“I _do_ worry, though,” the angel confesses, turning around in Crowley’s embrace so he can look at his demon. Crowley’s eyes are downcast, as if he’s afraid of Aziraphale catching his gaze. Aziraphale doesn’t push for contact Crowley might not want to receive at the moment.

“Crowley, my dear,” he says, bringing his hands up to cup the sides of Crowley’s neck. “If there is anything you want to tell me, anything you want to talk about, you can, all right? I’m here for whatever you need, my love.”

Crowley heaves out a sigh and pushes his head forward until their foreheads are pressed together. For a long time, they remain in each other’s arms, content with the proximity between them. Just to make sure that the kettle won’t interrupt their comfortable quietness, Aziraphale keeps the water from boiling with a thought. Their tea can wait.

“Side effect of sleeping,” Crowley says after a while, so low that Aziraphale almost misses it. “Body gets used to it. Thinks it’s human. Most dreams are just weird, but some are…” His fingers press tighter against Aziraphale’s back. “Well. Not _nice_ ,” he hisses, and his tone lets Aziraphale know that’s as far as he’ll say about the matter.

“I see.” He doesn’t entirely, but he figures that the important part is that Crowley knows Aziraphale will be there for him in case he wants to talk more about his dreams: the weird and the not nice ones. “Do you have good dreams, too?” he asks in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“Yeah,” Crowley answers, and the corner of his mouth twists into the beginning of a smirk. “Some real good ones.”

“Will you tell me one?” Aziraphale prompts, entices, tempts, kissing that twist. 

Crowley recounts one of his so-called ‘real good’ dreams while Aziraphale half-sits, half-lies on the sofa and cards his fingers through his demon’s hair, Crowley’s head on his lap and his hands gesticulating excitedly. Aziraphale lets himself get carried away listening to Crowley’s dream, momentarily allowing the subject of his slumber troubles die.

But he keeps it in mind all the same, trying not to give his concern more power than it’s already gotten.

  


* * *

  


The third time Aziraphale is present when Crowley has a nightmare is the last straw.

His darling husband is deeply asleep, perfectly tranquil and comfortable on their bed in their room, filled with piles of books strewn about and plants in little pots and bigger pots and hanging by the window, so Aziraphale makes a quick trip down to their kitchen for a cup of tea, knowing it will only take him a minute.

Apparently, it is a minute too long.

_“AZIRAPHALE!”_

There is no ‘bad’ or ‘not nice’ about the bloodcurdling scream Crowley lets out—there is only fear and anguish and pain in his voice.

Aziraphale miracles himself to their bedroom, not even bothering to waste any time going up the stairs. Crowley is sat up in the middle of the bed, sweat dampening his hairline and running down the snake mark of his temple. His chest is heaving, and his eyes are wide and entirely yellow and absolutely terrified.

Aziraphale rushes to his side and pulls him into his arms immediately, petting his hair and running a hand up and down his back, pressing Crowley as close to his chest as he can. Crowley is shaking in his embrace, clinging to Aziraphale like his nightmare will drag him back to the world of his subconscious if he doesn’t hold on tightly enough. Aziraphale strengthens his arms around his husband, though the motions of his hands remain gentle.

“It’s all right, my dear, it’s all right,” he murmurs against Crowley’s forehead, his lips pressed to any inch of skin they can reach. “You’re safe, my love, you’re all right. It’s okay. Everything is okay, my darling.”

Crowley clings to him still, pushing his head against Aziraphale’s chest like he wants to bury himself in it, and Aziraphale hugs him just a bit tighter, for good measure. If he could keep Crowley wrapped up inside him for the rest of their lives, he would still think of himself as the most blessed being in Creation.

“You’re all right, Crowley, my Crowley,” Aziraphale keeps saying quietly, gently. “You’re here with me. You’re safe.”

Within his arms, Crowley mumbles something that would sound like unintelligible gibberish to anyone. To Aziraphale, who has known his beloved for six thousand years, it sounds like, “’s not me ‘m worried about, angel.”

He’s… worried about Aziraphale? But why? The angel is right here with him, safe and sound.

Well. Aziraphale has to remember that dreams are often illogical, and he can’t even begin to imagine the kind of nightmare that would catapult Crowley from his night’s sleep like that, so afraid for Aziraphale that his shaking hasn’t subsided at all.

“My darling.” Aziraphale keeps his mouth on Crowley’s snake mark, going to his ear before it comes back again. “My dear heart, I’m here. I’m all right, see? We’re all right. We are both safe.” 

It is those words, and Aziraphale’s soothing back-rubbing and hair-petting, that finally help Crowley’s body release part of the tension it’s holding. His fingers uncurl on Aziraphale’s back and instead rest flat against the fabric of his buttoned shirt.

Neither of them says anything. Aziraphale continues to gently caress Crowley’s back and hair, simply holding his beloved in his arms and letting him take as much time as he needs to pull his thoughts together. He doesn’t push Crowley to talk if he doesn’t want to. He’s content with just embracing him, his arms holding him closely against his chest, almost close enough to feel his heartbeat through their respective layers of clothing.

Eventually, Crowley starts to sort of… slouch against him, and Aziraphale has known his demon long enough to know what he’s asking for, whether he realizes it or not. Gently, carefully, with all the delicacy his corporation can muster, Aziraphale softly begins to guide Crowley down onto his lap until his husband’s arms are wrapped around his middle, his head cushioned on one of Aziraphale’s thighs as Crowley lies between his legs.

Aziraphale does not stop touching him, his hands still busy on Crowley’s back and hair, transmitting as much of his power as he can to his fingers. He does not know how Crowley will react to stronger words of affection in his current state, and the last thing he wants to do is push his beloved away when he seems so vulnerable.

_I love you,_ he thinks, pushing his words through his hands so they reach Crowley. _I adore you, soul of my soul. I will take care of you and look after you for as long as you’ll let me. For as long as you’ll have me._

It doesn’t take long for Crowley’s breathing to ease, for his chest to rise and fall evenly. The motions of Aziraphale’s hands keep going, unwilling to leave him in case Crowley is still not fully asleep. Unwilling to leave him _at all_ , if he’s honest with himself—and he tries to be, at least nowadays.

The point is that Aziraphale’s hands keep caressing Crowley’s back and petting his hair, and once he’s absolutely sure that Crowley is asleep, Aziraphale leans down to press a kiss to the top of his husband’s head.

“No fear or dread will enter your slumber,” he murmurs against the hair roots. “My love, my dear heart. You will wake up having dreamed of whatever you like best.”

In his arms (and his lap), Crowley takes a deep breath and lets out a long sigh, accompanied by a hum so relaxed and _happy_ that it arrows straight through Aziraphale’s chest. That’s all he wishes for Crowley: for him to be safe and content and happy now that they finally have each other, now that they finally have this life together, a home of their own and eternity at their fingertips.

Now that they are finally free to love each other the way they spent six thousand years waiting for.

  


* * *

  


The night comes and goes, and soon, Aziraphale is watching the sunlight stream through the curtains of their bedroom windows. Crowley has remained completely still, save for sometimes nuzzling his face against Aziraphale’s thigh, and Aziraphale smiled each time and pet his husband’s hair and kissed the top of his head for good measure.

It’s a few minutes after the sun has fully risen that Crowley begins to stir. Not much, no, only enough to let Aziraphale know he’s awake. It never fails to amaze Aziraphale how he’s grown so attuned to his demon that he can recognize the smallest of body movements and identify the subtlest of changes in his expressions. Crowley, of course, is equally attuned to him, and it’s just one more part of their new life that Aziraphale has deeply fallen in love with: the quiet intimacy that comes with just being with each other, with spending an afternoon lying together, listening to each other breathe.

“Good morning, my dear,” Aziraphale greets him, running his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “Are you thirsty? Would you like some tea?”

Crowley shakes his head minutely.

“Coffee? Water?”

Another shake of his head.

“Well, I’m going to get some cocoa,” Aziraphale announces. He gets ready to gently pry himself out of his beloved’s arms, but just when he’s about to move, Crowley tightens his hold around him.

Not much, no—only enough for Aziraphale to feel it.

Crowley immediately lessens his grip so he’s holding onto Aziraphale with the same strength he used throughout the night, like he wants to take back what he did and let the angel go get his cocoa.

_Like I could ever leave you when you want me to stay,_ Aziraphale thinks. He curls his hand around Crowley’s nape and runs his thumb up and down, up and down, until Crowley has nearly melted on his lap, nuzzling Aziraphale’s thigh and pushing his face closer to the fabric as though wanting to feel the skin beneath.

Then Crowley tilts his head in a way that says, _I’ve woken up, but I’d rather not get out of bed. Or talk, for that matter. Just want to feel you._

Aziraphale releases a hum and miracles a cup of cocoa to his free hand. After… whatever horrible nightmare Crowley had, the least he deserves is to be pampered, spoiled, tended to, and Aziraphale will always indulge his husband. He spent millennia denying his own heart, he will not waste another second.

The silence in their bedroom has always been comfortable. Safe. It’s the sort of silence that fills one’s chest with warmth, that lulls you to sleep after a long day, and if Crowley wants to nap or even go back to sleep, Aziraphale will stay with him, making sure he can do so in peace.

He thinks about miracling a book as well, but he loathes the thought of pulling his other hand away from Crowley, so he decides against it and simply drinks his cocoa, remembering to let out a sigh every now and then—they always make Crowley smile.

His darling nuzzles his thigh with his forehead, obviously because he’s trying to hold back said smile, and Aziraphale chuckles quietly to himself.

“Shuddup,” Crowley mumbles, the words stubbornly sticking together.

“I didn’t say anything,” Aziraphale argues.

“Were thinkin’ it,” Crowley replies.

“Hm.”

Crowley does not say anything else, and Aziraphale has lately not been one to utter senseless words when it’s clear that his husband is in no mood for them. His cocoa refills as soon as he finishes it, his thumb still tracing circles on the nape of Crowley’s neck.

After what might have been a few minutes, or maybe even hours, his beloved mutters something against the fabric of his pantleg.

“I saw it.”

Aziraphale gently tugs on a small lock of hair within reach of his fingers. “What, my dear?”

“The bookshop,” Crowley says. “When… when it burned down.”

Aziraphale inhales sharply. Insofar as the events of the Non-Apocalypse go, they have never really talked about both of their precious belongings respectfully being destroyed, given that Adam brought them back as good as new and with a couple of additions to boot.

Aziraphale was curious, of course, but the memory of Crowley’s voice in that pub—so wrecked, woeful, _wobbly_ as he spoke, _I lost my best friend, I’m really sorry, it burned down_ —kept his mouth shut. He hadn’t needed to see Crowley to know how much his love was hurting, and Aziraphale found no use in bringing up unpleasant remembrances. Crowley didn’t look like he wanted to bring it up, either, so Aziraphale was content with putting the whole thing behind them.

It seems like perhaps he should’ve paid more attention.

“You weren’t there,” Crowley continues after Aziraphale has not said a word. “Thought it…” He squeezes the angel’s waist, pressing his face harder against his thigh. “Thought it was hellfire.”

A sob rips its way out of Aziraphale’s throat, and he has to bite his lip and take a deep breath before he can speak.

“Oh, my dear,” he says wetly, vanishing his cup of cocoa. Crowley squirms a bit, and he starts to move his knees beneath him so he can sit up, but Aziraphale can’t bear the thought of letting him go now. The moment Crowley is upright, Aziraphale wraps his arms around him and pulls him to his chest, pressing desperate kisses to his head, his hair, his temple, wanting to reassure him that he’s here, they are here, they are _safe_.

He can’t even imagine how… how _afraid_ Crowley must have been, watching the flames consume the bookshop and believing Aziraphale was _dead_. It’s no wonder, then, that Crowley seemed to be in such pain, no wonder Aziraphale’s blessing didn’t appear to last for more than a night. 

_Body gets used to it,_ Crowley told him. _Thinks it’s human._

“My darling,” Aziraphale exhales, swallowing back tears. “Oh, my sweet love. Is that what you’ve been dreaming about?”

“Not always,” Crowley answers, sitting sideways on Aziraphale’s lap, his arms curling around the angel’s torso and his head resting on his shoulder. “It was worse before we moved here, when we were not… together.” He shrugs in a way that tries too hard to come off as nonchalant, and it breaks Aziraphale’s heart. “‘S not as bad now that I know you’re here.”

“My dear heart,” Aziraphale says against Crowley’s hair, resolute. “I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere, I promise you. I swear to you.”

Crowley lets out a nervous chuckle. “Careful, angel. Those are dangerous words to say to a demon.”

He’s trying to deflect the intensity of Aziraphale’s oath, but Aziraphale has never been more serious.

_And I will say them,_ he vows, _over and over and over again, until the whole world has heard it. Until I’ve spoken it into the universe and it has shifted to comply._

He knows, however, that he is close to overwhelming Crowley, so the only thing he tells him out loud is this:

“Then I’ll say that I don’t plan on leaving you. Never.”

_Again_ is implicitly tacked on to the end of his sentence. Neither of them mentions it, but they both know it’s there. They both hear it.

Crowley hums, burrowing closer into Aziraphale’s chest. “I’m fine, you know.”

“I know you are,” Aziraphale agrees despite knowing it’s not entirely true. What Crowley needs now is not more pampering but a distraction, something to get out of his head and for Aziraphale to treat him like the wily serpent he’s proud to be. “But I’ve grown peckish. What do you say we go have lunch at that lovely little bistro with the strawberry scones you’re fond of?”

“I’m not _fond_ of them,” Crowley argues, already pulling away from Aziraphale so he can roll his eyes at him. “I just like them better than their puddings and tarts and that _awful_ banoffee pie you ordered the first time we were there.”

“It was not awful!” Aziraphale cries, glad for the snark. Crowley has gotten out of bed and snapped his usual outfit on, sunglasses and all. “The bananas were just not in their… utmost, tiptop condition.”

“Angel,” Crowley says. “Please. You’re better than that.”

Aziraphale huffs and goes to change. Crowley might be comfortable with simply snapping his clothes on, but Aziraphale, as his husband remarked, has _standards._

  


* * *

  


The bistro is out of banoffee pie, but they have miraculously added crepes to their menu.

“It’s a very recent addition!” says the sweet young girl who will be waitressing their table.

“I’m sure it is, my dear,” Aziraphale says, glancing at Crowley out of the corner of his eye.

While they wait for their crepes to arrive, Crowley busies himself with slightly raising and dipping bits of the pavement beside them so distracted pedestrians stumble and curse, looking down at the street and muttering, “I could’ve _sworn_ that wasn’t there yesterday!” He also plays around with the salt and pepper shakers on their table, fiddling with the caps, which makes Aziraphale assume he must have done the same to the shakers of the other tables with a bit of demonic influence.

(Later, two tables over, a man who was quite rude to one of the waiters yells something along the lines of, “Bloody salt shaker! Blasted cap came off, look at this mess!”

Crowley does not bite back his snort. Aziraphale hides his smile with his cup of tea.)

Every once in a while, a car alarm a few streets away goes off, and Crowley smiles to himself at the startled jump from the patrons around them.

At one point, the soft music gently playing over the bistro’s speakers changes to something Aziraphale recognizes, though not because it is of his taste, necessarily. After all, he has learned to tune it out when he needs to.

“Really, my dear?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

Crowley leans his chin on his palm as a strangely relaxing jazz version of _Another One Bites the Dust plays for a second time in a row._ “What?”

The crepes are scrumptious, cooked and mixed perfectly, though they’re not as good as the ones they had in Paris. Then again, they can’t really be compared. It’s been a long time since they’ve gone, and the circumstances are infinitely better. Perhaps a weekend getaway would be good for them. Aziraphale makes a mental note to himself to discuss it with Crowley sometime this week.

He makes sure to order a couple of strawberry scones to take with them so Crowley can have something to nibble with tomorrow morning’s coffee.

They hold hands on the way back to their cottage. They usually take the Bentley when they go out, but the bistro is not that far away, and Aziraphale thought Crowley might like this better. Walking allows them to swing their hands between them. It allows Aziraphale to hold Crowley’s arm and rest his head against his shoulder. It allows Crowley to wrap an arm around his waist when he wants the closeness but does not know how to ask for it in words.

It allows Aziraphale to tell him, with his actions, with his corporation, _I’m here for you, my love. I am yours. Take what you need of me._

Back home, Crowley works on the garden while there’s still light out, and Aziraphale takes the chance to go upstairs and make their bed. He could snap his fingers and have the bedsheets arrange themselves, but he likes doing it himself. He doesn’t know if it’s because of how long they’ve lived here, or if it’s simply because they are no longer hiding neither their identities nor their feelings, but everything in their bedroom has faint traces of… well, _them_. Of their essences, an underlying scent that is only noticeable if one knows that it’s there in the first place.

Aziraphale can’t explain why the remains of Crowley’s scent on their bedsheets brings him such peace, such serenity—it just _does_. Perhaps it’s both Crowley’s and their combined scents, proof that this is their life now, that they can have this, that they _earned_ this: the chance to be together, to openly love one another without fear or repercussions.

To share a _sodding_ bed that smells and _feels_ like them.

Crowley’s footsteps on the stairs bring Aziraphale out of his thoughts. He quickly blinks back the dampness in his eyes and finishes fluffing up the pillows the way he knows Crowley likes them. He turns just in time for Crowley to pull him into his arms, burying his face on the crook of Aziraphale’s neck.

Aziraphale holds his hips and kisses his temple. “Bedtime?”

“Mhm,” Crowley hums. When he pulls away, he’s already miracled his sunglasses to the bedside table and changed into his sleepwear, a simple black undershirt and pajama bottoms. It’s almost frustrating how maddeningly attractive he is in every single piece of clothing he wears, and Aziraphale grips his husband’s hips and holds him there just one second longer.

He finally lets Crowley go so his beloved can climb into bed, but rather than miracle a book to read while Crowley sleeps, Aziraphale, for the first time in centuries, waves a hand in front of himself to change into his own sleepwear: a set of light blue pajamas that his darling gifted him a few months after they moved to the cottage.

When he turns to the bed, Crowley has taken his place on his side and is staring at him like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

“Angel,” he exhales, “you’re gorgeous.”

Aziraphale can’t help the blush that spreads over his cheeks. Part of him still can’t believe that Crowley finds his corporation physically alluring, but he basks in the praise, in the sincerity and devotion dripping from Crowley’s voice, like one of the sunflowers out in their garden.

He slips into his side of the bed and lies with his arms open. Crowley wastes no time settling inside them, wrapping one arm around Aziraphale’s waist and reaching for his hand with the other one, his forehead resting right against the side of the angel’s neck. Aziraphale envelops Crowley’s back with his free hand, using the other one to interlace his and Crowley’s fingers together so he can kiss his darling’s knuckles.

“Aziraphale,” his demon mumbles, his mouth moving against the hollow of his throat.

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes and kisses Crowley’s head. “And I, you, my love.”

“Will…” Crowley burrows deeper into his arms. “Will you… y’know…”

Aziraphale doesn’t need him to finish his sentence. He gently begins to pet Crowley’s hair, his fingers threading the locks as he musters all his power, drawing it from his very core, letting it course through him.

“My dear heart,” he whispers, his lips still pressed to his beloved’s head. “May your slumber be restful. Dream of whatever you like best, my darling one. I will keep your fears and worries away.”

Crowley squeezes his hand and lets out a long, deep sigh. Before long, he has fallen asleep, his head now resting on Aziraphale’s chest. 

Aziraphale stares at the ceiling of their bedroom.

He can’t believe he didn’t know—that it never occurred to him that of course Crowley was in the bookshop when it was burning down, looking for him. After so many rejections, after Aziraphale repeatedly pushed him away and told him ‘no,’ after Crowley swore he was going to the stars, never to think about the angel again, his beloved still went to him one last, desperate time, only to find his bookshop in flames and assume that Aziraphale was gone.

For all Crowley knew, for all he cared, he was really, completely alone.

Has his love been dealing with this on his own? Has he been carrying this dread and fear on his shoulders ever since the world didn’t end? Does… does part of him still believe that, at any moment, Aziraphale might be snatched away from him?

He remembers a tartan thermos and swallows back a gasp. Unconsciously, reflexively, his arm around Crowley tightens.

If he had not been discorporated… If he had gone to Crowley’s flat and seen a puddle of holy water on the floor, found the open thermos on the desk, with no sign of his demon anywhere…

Aziraphale’s chest aches at the thought. Everything he ever did, all the distance he put between them, all the pain and sorrow he caused them both, it was always to protect Crowley, to keep him safe from both of their Head Offices. And Crowley has always protected him as well, asking him to leave when everything seemed lost, going back to him when there was no hope left, standing by his side until the very end… And to imagine such a scenario, one where Aziraphale’s worst fears became true, one where he had given Crowley the means to be _destroyed_ —

If Aziraphale had thought, for only one moment, that Crowley was truly gone, he might have burned the world down himself. He would have marched right up to Heaven and destroyed every single one of the angels there, he would have gone down to Hell to smite every single demon, he would have let go of his corporation, released his true form, let Divine Wrath course through him, take over him, sod the consequences, he would have… he would have…

Crowley stirs, barely. He nuzzles Aziraphale’s chest and squeezes his fingers, and the touch is so soothing, such a reassurance, that Aziraphale has to close his eyes and breathe.

_We’re all right,_ Crowley seems to be saying, even asleep. _We’re okay. We’re safe. We’re **home.**_

He’s always been as attuned to the angel as the angel is to him.

Aziraphale exhales, biting his lip. It’s true that they haven’t heard from either Head Office in almost a year, but there were times where they didn’t hear from them for longer periods, so Crowley’s fears may not be entirely unfounded. Who’s to say that Heaven and Hell won’t try something else? Who’s to say that, at the very least, they won’t find a way to make their lives miserable, to snatch their happily ever after from their hands?

He grips Crowley almost possessively. He will not allow it. He will not let anyone, neither Heaven nor Hell, touch his beloved husband. He is a Principality, for goodness’ sake—his entire purpose is to protect, and by God, Aziraphale will protect Crowley until the universe ceases to exist, until the atoms that made up everything make the world anew, until She grows bored with her Creations and erases them from existence, only to build something else in its stead.

_And I would still search for you then,_ Aziraphale thinks, curling his arm around Crowley’s shoulders.

He stares at the ceiling once more, and he listens to Crowley’s breathing, and he feels his chest rise and fall evenly on his belly, and all he can think about is how much he loves this demon, _his_ demon. How can he ensure that they are protected, that they are truly safe, that their _home_ is _safe_ —?

Aziraphale’s racing mind comes to a halt.

His bookshop had not been protected against angels. It had never even occurred to Aziraphale to do such a thing. Why would it have? Gabriel and Sandalphon had had the horrible tendency to drop by, completely unannounced, when Aziraphale had least been expecting them. He had, however, secured the bookshop against other demons, designing and casting sigils that would keep out everyone who wasn’t ethereal or human in nature—with the sole exception of Crowley, that is.

The process of sigil-casting is a bit like writing instructions for the place you want to cast said sigils upon. In the case of Aziraphale’s bookshop, the instructions had been the following:

_Please keep out all demons, except, of course, for my dear Crowley, who is always welcome to be here as much as he likes. These doors will never be locked for him, regardless of the day or hour, but they shall be locked for everyone else when I am not present._

It would not take Aziraphale long to write similar instructions for their cottage. He could design sigils that work on both his and Crowley’s energies, that are tailored to them specifically, to protect their home against any supernatural intruder.

Aziraphale pulls Crowley closer. He buries his nose on his beloved’s hair, relishing the smell of him, and does not sleep.

  


* * *

  


Crowley slightly traces the sigils on the piece of paper in front of him with his fingertips. Aziraphale is sat next to him on the couch, staring at their joint work. He designed them, but Crowley finished them. The angel has never seen anything like them, and warmth blossoms in his chest. The sigils are beautiful, intricate, a work of art, perfected by Crowley’s wonderfully clever hands.

He was a star maker for a reason.

Crowley reaches for Aziraphale’s hand and wraps his fingers around his palm.

“D’you really think this’ll work?” he asks, his grip trembling slightly.

“I do,” Aziraphale says, squeezing Crowley’s hand back. He firmly believes that Crowley is capable of doing anything, and he believes himself capable of doing anything when Crowley’s beside him. Having gone to Heaven and Hell for each other, having risked their lives for each other, finally standing on their own side, what _can’t_ they do?

When Crowley looks at him, there is a spark of hope in his gaze, and all Aziraphale wants to do is turn that spark into a bonfire. 

“Right,” Crowley says, his fingers tightening around Aziraphale’s hand. His jaw is set with determination, rising from the couch with an air that comes incredibly close to the cockiness and smugness Crowley usually carries around himself.

God in Heaven, Aziraphale loves him. 

Together, their hands clasped, they stand in the middle of their living room, amidst the coffee table and couches and bookshelves and potted plants and pictures and paintings hanging from the walls, in this little cottage they have made their own. They close their eyes and get to work.

It’s not a visible change. The sigils don’t suddenly appear on the walls as little symbols carved in the wood. Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s respective ethereal and occult energies seep from their corporations, leading the sigils from their minds and into the physical world, but in the same plane of existence where their wings lay, scattering them over their cottage like the freckles on the back of Crowley’s shoulders.

As soon as the sigils are in place, the air around them changes.

Aziraphale is the first one to open his eyes, and he gasps for breath as he is almost drowned by the overwhelming rush of _love_ that suddenly covers their home. It’s not unlike the flashes of love he felt when they went to Tadfield, and yet it’s so much _stronger_ , so much _closer_ , a wave of love that nestles in his terribly human heart.

Crowley leans against him—sags against him, more like—and Aziraphale throws his arms around him and pulls him into an embrace, and he loves him so, so much.

“Angel,” Crowley mutters, awestruck, wrapping an arm over Aziraphale’s shoulders to steady himself. “ _Aziraphale._ ”

“I know,” Aziraphale replies. “Oh, my dear, I _know._ ”

It feels like their love for each other is amplified a thousandfold, reverberating throughout their cottage as if it were something _tangible_ , as if their love were the shield now covering their home, and Aziraphale can’t help the small laugh that bursts out of his throat, because it might as well be.

He can hear every declaration of love Crowley has ever uttered, every time he confessed his feelings for Aziraphale in his own way, his devotion and adoration powering the sigils.

_I’ll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go._

__

_Let’s have lunch._

__

_I know what you smell like._

__

_We can run away together._

__

_You can stay at my place, if you’d like._

And those are not the only declarations he hears. The ones he has spoken in the past year echo around him, every single pet name he has called Crowley, every single time he has kissed any part of him and thought of how much he loves him, and Aziraphale laughs and laughs, overjoyed, and clutches Crowley to him.

“Ugh,” Crowley groans. “I can hear it, too. That’s embarrassing.”

“No!” Aziraphale cries, nosing his jaw. “No, my love, not at all. It’s _astounding._ ”

“You’re only saying that because you love me.”

“I do,” he says, grinning. “With all my heart.”

“Right!” Crowley clears his throat and snaps his sunglasses into place. “C’mon, angel. Let me tempt you to a spot of lunch?”

“Of course, my darling. Go ahead, I’ll be right with you.”

Crowley pulls himself away from him, and Aziraphale already misses him. But there’s one more thing he needs to do, one more sigil he must cast.

He created this one specifically for Crowley, so it only needs Aziraphale’s ethereal energy to work. It is a small design, not as intricate as the ones carved all over their cottage. He places this one above the headboard of their bed, perfectly centered between their pillows, and casts a blessing upon it.

_Dream of whatever you like best._

Something akin to a slight electric shock runs down Aziraphale’s back, assuring him that the sigil is now active, and he heaves a long sigh of relief. It will not be able to completely stop Crowley from having nightmares, but it will whisper softly and soothingly in his ear, _This is not real. My darling, you’re dreaming. We are all right. We are safe. Rest easy, my love, and breathe._

“Angel!” Crowley calls from outside, poking his head through the open front door.

“Yes, dear!” Aziraphale closes the distance between them, holding out his hand for Crowley to catch it on his own. They walk out of their protected haven with their joint palms swinging between them, and the door slowly, gently closes behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> I really hoped you all liked this, and if you did, please consider leaving kudos and a comment! 
> 
> Also feel free to check out my [Tumblr](https://animeangelriku.tumblr.com/) and come talk to me on Twitter, both my ["regular" account](https://twitter.com/animeangelriku) and my [NSFW one!](https://twitter.com/animedemonriku)


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